It is dusk: almost just, really.

All day I sat motionless

in a locked, gray, windowless room

but now I am out in the streets,

empty ones though,

desolate beaches

where no one hears

the waves roar.

No children play hide and seek,

the dogs gaze mournfully

from stone-still windows

and even the birds have

gone elsewhere to sing.

The magnolia tree is celebrating

or mourning, it is hard to tell:

its petals are discarded poems

on the empty floor.

The striped roses soundlessly

fall one by one on the cold concrete:

they must have learned that trick

from the snow.

I steal the roses to bring home

and they now lie on my desk,

sleeping princesses in

sepia striped gowns.

There will be a time later,

when they awaken

and I will tell them stories of

empty streets and songless skies

and a weeping magnolia tree.

But for now,

I let them sleep,

the very least I can do

to preserve their sweet oblivion.

A gift I wish I could give myself

and everyone else

but alas not.

I trace the stripes on the petals:

beneath my fingertips,

they are a soft valley of peace.